


let's be more than strangers

by wickedlittleoz



Series: all the roads lead back to you [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 90'S, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Fluff, I'm awful with tags, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Sequel, Steve fucks up, but he's trying to be better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-17 08:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16091924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedlittleoz/pseuds/wickedlittleoz
Summary: If everything wound up dying after a week of phone calls that got progressively shorter and sparser, he would still be satisfied with what they had.x x xOr: what happens when Steve goes back to Indiana after his business trip to L.A.





	1. left my heart out in the rain

Steve was dozing. Through the fog in his mind he could somehow still register the smooth voice of the flight attendant informing that they were about to land. So he did as instructed, yawning and turning his head to glance quickly at his right, where Natasha was, too, fastening her belt.

She smiled small, a thing of the _fear of the boss_ that had been stained the night before when she first heard him get yelled at by his father like a five-year-old over the phone, and then come in very late and loudly bang someone in a hotel room with walls too thin.

But she hadn’t touched either subjects. Hadn’t made any mention of noticing both situations at all. Respected his space, and it – _respect_ – was in that smile as well. He felt grateful.

He smiled back at her for half a second and turned his attention to the clouds outside.

Steve had been dreaming, or remembering the night before. The soft touch of Billy’s warm skin, the hard grip of his hands on Steve’s when he came. The sweetness of his mouth even with the bitter traces of beer.

Yes, the memory felt like a dream. If someone told him, back in his senior year, that one day he’d fuck Billy Hargrove, he’d have laughed and said _yeah, right_ , all sarcasm coming off as a joke. But in truth he was forever disappointed that he had to live _knowing_ the kid was gay (really, he wasn’t fooling anyone), but also hated his guts.

Except that this morning Billy had gone as far as offering to drive them to the airport, had kissed him long and deep and hot and unhurried in the bath, then blown him, and Steve’s eyes had rolled back from how hard he came.

He’d sat on the bed and watched Steve dress up, collect the few items he’d left on the bathroom sink or the bedside table, or the clothes Billy himself had ripped off of him the night before. He’d tied Steve’s tie, then tugged him close and kissed him some more.

It had all felt so right that the butterflies in Steve’s stomach _still_ hadn’t stopped fluttering and making him sick – lucky for him, he could blame them on the flight.

 

“Mr. Harrington, you have a meeting tomorrow at 2pm,” Natasha was saying while Steve watched the streets he had come to know so well over this past decade, and he thought of streets flanked by palm trees, streets he’d like to come to know as well. “They’re a new publishing brand and they want to sign their prints with us.”

It was getting dark now. He couldn’t wait to get home. The company driver, Mr. Langford, a man on his fifties whose words were as sparse as his hair, and who was always down for a smoke whenever someone – anyone – offered, cut through traffic carefully, with ease and practice.

“Also, we should be getting a shipment of first prints sometime in the afternoon as well and Mr. Harrington Sir asked me to have you overlook them. Says he trusts your judgment.”

 _Like hell he does_ , Steve thought. He didn’t say anything, though, because it wasn’t her problem. He only nodded and turned his eyes forward, gazing at the cars and people crossing as they waited on a red light.

Natasha stopped then, the tip of a pen pressed to her lips. Steve could see her from the corner of his eyes, tense and worried. She looked between him and the planner on her lap quickly, cleared her throat, and then said:

“Speaking of which, sir.” Her voice was firm, though, steady. And Steve admired her all the more, “Should I call his secretary to schedule a meeting for tomorrow?”

He wanted to say it wouldn’t be necessary, that he would probably either find his voicemail full of _call me when you get home_ messages or his dad in person waiting at his door. He’d be lucky if he managed to dodge the old man for the night and call Billy at all.

“Natasha.” He looked at her, then, honest and dead into her hazel eyes, and the softest of blushes tainted her cheeks beneath the powder, “What I would like for you to do is _rest_. Forget work for tonight. I’ll deal with Mr. Harrington myself. Okay?”

A beat and she nodded, looked down and away from his face, and Steve had to bite away a smile as he Billy’s voice flooded his mind, _is she pretty? isn't it what you suit and tie guys do?_

Maybe it was. But not him.

No, Steve had a taste for California guys, those with long blond hair and scorpion tattoos and stretched earholes, and everything his father would scrunch his nose at. He was _that_ predictable.

 

 _Mr. Harrington Sir_ had left ten messages on his voicemail. It was no later than 7pm when Steve got home, after they dropped Natasha and he made a stop to hand Mr. Langford a box of cigars he’d seen at the airport whilst they waited on their flight (because he could still smell Billy’s cologne on himself (phantom, but so very real) and it kept him jittery, too nervous to just _sit_ and _wait_ ).

Steve listened to all of them while he undressed and ate the burger he bought at the place next to his building, the familiar taste filling him with a sort of relief. The last message consisted of his dad actually asking him to come into his office first thing in the morning, _we have to discuss what to do next_ , and Steve thought that settled it for Natasha.

He showered, unpacked a few things, spread some aloe vera on his face and arms because his skin was _not_ used to the sun in California, then sat down on the bed.

Staring at the phone. Hesitant.

He wanted to call. Needed to hear Billy’s voice as if they hadn’t been together just that morning. But at that time he would probably be at the bar, and Steve had the number, Billy had made sure to give him an assortment of options for when he wanted to reach him, it’s just that Steve didn’t want to be a bother at work hours.

Though, honestly, if they were doing this, they were in trouble. Their work hours were complete opposite.

Wait.

“Doing this”? _This_?

What even is _this_ , he asked himself bitterly. They fucked, it’s not like they’re getting married. It was just sex. Billy probably wouldn’t even remember him in two days, would probably be hooking up with someone else pretty soon, with those abs and how good he looked and how charming he could be and…

And Steve hated the thought. Gosh, he was such a goner.

But he was not going to call.

He got to his feet, ignoring how much warmer it was in bed (two days in Los Angeles and he was already ten times more aware of the cold of Indiana), went back into the kitchen. Drank some water, and then some tea to calm his nerves and hopefully _drown_ the stupid butterflies in his stomach.

At some point, after brewing _and_ drinking the third cup in a row, he could no longer ignore the fact that all he was doing was stall, and so Steve made his way back to the bedroom.

The phone was still there on his bedside table, staring at him, judging him quietly.

Steve sat down on the bed and stared back.

It was stupid and he knew. No cartoon eyes were going to pop up out of thin air on an inanimate object, it wasn’t simply going to blink and lose their little battle so that Steve could reward himself by going to sleep and, you know, staying perfectly inside his comfort zone.

On a whim and after a good five minutes of their silent war, he picked it up and dialed a number he knew by heart. The line only rang for a few seconds before a male voice answered with a grunt.

“Hey, Hop,” Steve greeted because it was so like him to skip words altogether when answering late calls, as if to inform the other person from the start that they were being annoying. Steve knew Joyce gave him hell for it, being as caring as she was.

“Oh, hi, Steve.” He heard the phone being moved and then Hopper’s voice again, distant now, as if he was speaking over his shoulder: “Joyce! It’s Harrington on the phone.”

“Sorry I’m calling so late,” Steve went on, anxious to keep himself busy. “Just wanted to let you guys know I’m home.”

“It’s alright, kid,” Hopper said, rather affectionately. Right out of high school Steve had been pissed at them still calling him a “kid”, but now he understood – the gang were all still kids to his eyes, despite most of them having already graduated from college. “How was the trip?”

He couldn’t answer immediately, because what was he supposed to say? _Your wife was right and I didn’t listen to her so I did bump into Billy Hargrove, but not only bump so much as I also banged him_?

“It was okay,” he said simply, hoping Hopper wouldn’t notice the way his voice still peaked when he was nervous and had to lie, like he wasn’t an adult now, like adults aren’t supposed to be masters of the “poker face” or whatever his dad called it.

“Yeah? That’s not very convincing.”

To Steve’s luck, when he was already thinking back to everything that had happened during the past two days to tailor down what he could and couldn’t tell Hopper, Joyce picked up.

Although she was a mother and had that sixth sense that seems to come with the growth of the belly, it was easier to divert her attention. She wanted to hear about the meeting and became so worried that it went south, that she almost forgot to ask what else he’d done and seen. And when Steve said he and Natasha had gone to a bar after the meeting, she bought it like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You’re not hitting on that girl, are you, Steve?” Joyce reprimanded, almost offended, as if to say that she expected that from _everyone_ on his company and in the business, but not _him_ and he actually felt good about himself for once.

“’Course not, Joyce. It was a quiet place. By the beach, close to the hotel. We just needed to cheer up a little after that meeting,” Steve said, half truth, half lie. Again, she believed him.

And just like that, the call was over. It was late, they were tired.

And Steve was still nervous about calling Billy Hargrove.

Only that, as soon as he set the receiver down, the phone started ringing. He hesitated, hand hovering over the thing so close he could feel it vibrate, thinking it was maybe trying to trick him, to resume their little feud. Steve breathed and kicked himself mentally for being such a loser (did kids even say that anymore these days?), then picked it up.

“Hello?” Said a voice he’d grown familiar with over the course of one night and cold washed over Steve’s entire body, then heat, and then the butterflies were raging again.

 _Fuck_.

“Billy?” He asked, small and verging on skeptical and trying _hard_ to hold back a scream.

“Shit Harrington, I was starting to think you’d never answer.” He laughed and Steve laughed as well, heart hammering in his chest.

“Sorry, I was on a call with Joyce,” he said sheepishly, laying back down on his pillows.

He felt stupid that talking _on the phone_ with Billy made him that nervous and excited, like a teenager sneaking late at night into his dad’s _forbidden access_ office to use the phone and call his crush. They were both way too old for that, but he could feel in the way Billy’s breathing was calculated that he, too, was holding back and trying to tame his nerves.

“Joyce _Byers_? You guys still talk?”

There was music on Billy’s end of the line, distant, like he was in a separate room from a raging party. Steve figured he was calling from the bar and felt somewhat _important_.

But also like a nuisance. That was two nights on a row he neglected the bar to keep him company.

“Yeah,” he answered after a beat. “Still talk to all of them, actually. Even Max, sometimes.”

Billy laughed at that. _Laughed_ , and Steve _blushed_ , had to throw an arm over his face to feel less stupid.

“Yeah, Neil was pissed last year that she actually went to Hawkins for the holidays, but didn’t spend it with them,” he stopped and chuckled again. “We laugh about it to this day.”

Steve remembered it. He’d been at Joyce’s for New Years as well and Max had shown up late, upset, saying Susan had actually _cried_ when she made to leave and they had a fight because Max just couldn’t stand spending another holiday with Neil.

Now that Steve thought about it, it was a wonder that he and Billy had lost touch when he still saw his sister at least twice a year.

 “She’s a great kid,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say and it was true.

“She is,” Billy agreed.

And then silence.

Heavy, pregnant with the _need_ to say something, anything at all, just keep the conversation going so that the fragile connection between them wouldn’t break, wouldn’t die, wouldn’t make them two people who fucked once and meant nothing to—

“So, how was the flight?” Billy said suddenly, like there hadn’t been a pause to the conversation at all, and maybe there hadn’t, maybe Steve was just overthinking, he _was_ known for being an overthinker, it’s one of his most refined skills.

He let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.

“Fine... Uneventful.” _I missed you every second of the way._ “How’s the bar tonight?”

There was the sound of the phone being handled and then a door opening. Steve’s ears were invaded by something from… Mötley Crüe, he thought? And talking voices, people singing along, people laughing.

It was a Thursday night. He hadn’t had the energy to go to a bar mid-week in _years_. The night before had been the first in forever, but that was also where he met Billy, so. The thought made him feel like he needed to be a little more daring again, a little more like the guy willing to face a full hoard of Demodogs by himself with nothing more than a spiked bat just to protect a bunch of kids.

The door was closed and the music became muffled again. “How’s it sound?”

“Fun,” he said on a burst of honesty. “Wish I was there. The place’s really great, Billy. And, you know… The _service_.”

Billy actually cackled, “The _service_?”

“Yeah,” Steve laughed a little. “The _service_. You know, the owner, he’s kinda cute. And he gets very… _Friendly_ with his customers.”

“ _Cute_?” He sounded genuinely offended and Steve held his breath for a moment, thought he’d said the wrong thing, the thing that would end whatever chances they had, until Billy went on: “I think you meant _ridiculously hot_ and _breathtakingly handsome_.”

Relieved ( _again_ , he really had to do something about his anxiety issues), Steve wanted to laugh and agree, because it was all too true. Billy was hotter than the freaking sun and goddamn Brad Pitt looked like a slug compared to him. Steve was positively _overwhelmed_ looking at him most of the time.

“I meant what I meant,” he said instead, just to tease him a little more, because what’s the fun in giving Billy what he wants right away.

Hargrove clicked his tongue and Steve bit away a chuckle, gave him his moment.

“Also, I don’t get _friendly_ with all the customers,” he said, still a little on the defensive side, but more flirtatious now, and Steve… Steve admittedly liked where this was headed, “Only a few very special ones.”

“Is that so,” he hummed. His palms were already sweaty. Steve had zero self-control when it came to Billy, apparently. He adjusted himself on the bed, tugged a little on his sweatpants, then asked, “Am I supposed to feel special?”

“Yeah, babe,” Billy said on the same beat, but suddenly warm, calm and full of _sentiment_ , like going from the third up to the fifth gear like that was only natural, “You’re special.”

Steve had been meaning to say something like that all night. Or at least admit how much he missed him. But then Billy pulled it off out of the blue, like offering his heart on a silver platter was easy and effortless, and again Steve was struck surprised with how much he’d changed, how honest and comfortable with himself and the world he was now.

He envied him.

“It’s late,” Steve said then, instead of _you too_ or _I miss you_ or anything of the sort, because Steve was weak, because he didn’t have the confidence Billy had, because he still protected his heart under seven different types of locks since _bullshit, bullshit, bullshit_ all those years back. “I should sleep.”

“Right,” Billy said and he did sound a little disappointed, and Steve felt _stupid_. “You must be exhausted.”

“Yeah.” He paused, sat up, hid his face in his hand again. “Good night, Billy. Thanks… For the, um, for the call.”

“No problem.” There was a pause, a beat, Steve bit his tongue until he tasted blood. “Goodnight, Steve.”

And then the line died.

 

Steve walked into work the next morning in a Mood, capital M. Natasha thought he was just nervous about his meeting with _Mr. Harrington Sir_ , so she kept telling him it was going to be okay and offering to go in with him so she could testify to their efforts.

He didn’t want to be rude and offend her, so at some point Steve asked her to bring him coffee and made his way to his father’s office while she was gone.

The old man was sitting on his big leather chair, phone on one hand, lit cigar on the other. The room was one big cloud of sweetened smoke and Steve’s eyes watered in his effort not to cough.

He only acknowledged Steve’s presence by waving in his direction with his cigar, something in the lines of _wait_ and _this is more important than you_. Steve stood and waited, too worked up to sit down, as he haggled with whoever was on the other end of the line for lower prices.

This had always been the type of “ _entrepreneur_ ” his father was: his work was worth millions and other people’s, cents. They had always seen things differently; Steve was the kind of person who appreciated others by their smaller efforts, the kind that pretended not to know that back when they were kids Tommy only invited him to parties so he could get wasted and high, and trust Steve to drive him home at the end of the night, because his parents were so strict about him using the car.

At least he had someone to hang out with. At least he didn’t have to stay home alone, and Tommy didn’t suck _that bad_ most of the time.

Over these years that Steve had been working for his father, they’d had countless arguments over him signing contracts that the old man deemed _too expensive for the company_ , when Steve knew for certain they wouldn’t even tickle their finances. He thought it was a good, small way of making things _fairer_.

The call still lasted another good ten minutes of Steve standing there and watching his father get progressively more irritated, his face getting redder, until the person on the other side broke and they got to an agreement. Then he slammed the phone down, eyes glinting with pride and that maniac smile plastered on his face (the one that made Steve afraid of him for a month when he was six), and yelled for his secretary.

This one was new, young and fresh out of college. After two years, Helen had finally found out about the affair with the last one and his father was forced to fire her. Steve felt awful for not being able to do a thing to help her, after all, she wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Thing was, his mother wasn’t going to divorce him and _Mr. Harrington Sir_ was getting no trouble for his shitty character other than having to hire a new, younger woman, who he was probably going to seduce before she got her first pay. And that’s how it had been since the beginning, Steve figured, so he wanted nothing to do with it.

The woman hurried inside, heels _clack-clack-clack_ against the linoleum, and took the orders he practically barked at her. When she spun around to leave, Steve caught her eye for a split of second and they shared the same anxiety of not wanting to be there. He smiled sympathetically and she left.

“Son!” He roared and Steve sighed.

“ _Boss_ ,” he corrected at a normal speech level, because Steve liked to keep things separated, but his father had zero respect for it.

Which was why he was laughing now, and then coughing, and then drinking all of whatever was in his mug.  He smacked his lips in a most disgusting manner, cleared his throat and looked up at Steve again.

There was a pause during which they only stared at each other, both expecting the other to start. And, as it sometimes happened, their physical similarities struck Steve with disgust.

“Well?” His father said, then.

“Well what?” Steve crossed his arms defensively. Mostly because he wanted to just turn around and leave, but had to force himself to stay.

“Well, talk, Steve,” he pressed, voice dangerously curt now. “Start by explaining how the _fuck_ you ruined a _perfect_ deal that I personally handed to you with every single detail set and resolved.”

Steve sighed again, pinched the bridge of his nose, because it wasn’t that simple and his father knew. Yes, he had overseen the details and the prior contact, but then he had sent Steve in his place and of course the people over at the West Coast refused to close the deal with him, of course they got greedy, because it was _Steve_ and not _Mr. Harrington Sir_ , and Steve had _told_ him this was bound to happen.

“They wanted a larger fraction than what you guys agreed on, and they were resolute, and they were not going to break. I was in there for over _three hours_.” Steve wanted to say _just ask Natasha_ , but stopped himself, knowing his father wouldn’t understand or appreciate how much he already trusted her. “With all they wanted, we might as well just hand them the company.”

“How many times do I have to tell you.” He was fuming now as he looked down from Steve’s tired eyes to the ashtray on his desk, putting out the cigar. “When things get out of control, you bargain until you make them think they’re nothing without you and you get it back.”

“I _did_ ,” Steve said through gritted teeth. “I bargained. For three _goddamned_ hours.”

It had been a mystery to him for years why his father kept him in the company and in such high position, nonetheless, if he didn’t trust Steve to do his job, always questioned, always thought he could do _better_. That then was just the cherry on top. Steve was _exhausted_.

“Obviously, three hours gone to fucking waste, because _you_ made _me_ lose a perfect deal,” he shot back while pouring himself (and himself only) a shot of his favorite scotch.

Steve breathed, counted to ten, collected himself. If he had his bat here he’d be pouring blood on those stupid crystal glasses, he thought, and the thought didn’t scare him at all.

“Vincenzio,” he started and his father’s head spun so fast Steve heard his neck crack. He stared at Steve, eyes burning with fury at the _nerve_ of him, and Steve continued, voice cold and calculated: “We have a conference call scheduled for two weeks from today. If you think I’m fucking up your fucking business so bad, take the call. Take the lead. Close the deal. Because I _know_ I did my best, but as usual, it wasn’t good enough for you. And you know what they say. Want something done right? Do it yourself.”

When he was done and Steve stopped, his breathing was labored, lips twitching with rage, and it hurt to realize that his expression was mirrored almost to precision on his father’s face.

It was clear that something had broken there, but Steve wasn’t sorry. No, he was _done_. Done of his father treating him like shit all his life, like a waste of money and space; done of him doing the very same at work. Of Steve never living up to his expectations. Of never doing things right.

He was done _allowing_ all of this to happen, because he did. Bowed his head and told himself _Mr. Harrington Sir_ — _dad_ —deserved respect.

At what cost, though? The whip sang as it cut through air and Steve cried when he was finally alone in his apartment after another one of their “family dinners” or a meeting they both had to attend.

But he was too old to be putting himself through this still. No, he didn’t need his father and he didn’t _need_ this job, and if _Mr. Harrington Sir_ thought he could do better than Steve, he’d be happy to step down.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he swallowed a mouthful of _disgust_ and it tasted like poison, “I have a meeting to prepare for.”

Steve waited just a heartbeat, eyes still locked on that other pair that was so much like his, then spun around on his heels and left.

 

As soon as the lock in his office door clicked shut, indicating that he was alone and he was _safe_ , Steve broke. Trembling, legs unable to hold his weight, sobbing and dry-heaving, but with no tears left to cry.

That was an awful place and time to have a panic attack over standing up to his father, Steve was well aware, but he was _beyond_ control. And he was beyond bargaining for it. He just needed to let it all out.

Somehow he made it to his desk and around, and toppled onto his chair. He buried his head in his hands, breathed with some difficulty, but counted his breaths and the off-beat tempo of his heart, and he sobbed and he shook.

Ten years had gone since he left Hawkins and moved to Indianapolis to work with his father. Steve had dedicated the past _decade_ of his life to this job, this company, to keep the business soaring. And he’d grown to think he was _good_ at it. His mother was proud. Sales were more than satisfactory. Steve was _happy_. But there was never pleasing his father.

So much had happened since L.A. (and before that, even, because he’d been on Steve’s ass about the trip for weeks) that he had finally broken. All he wanted was to not feel like a useless, piece of shit employee, son and date.

Though, to be quite honest, screw his father and screw the company. The only person he had actually done wrong was Billy.

 _Fuck_. He really was no good, was he. Billy had been kind and caring, and he’d been fun and entertaining. And Steve had been a dick, head too far up his own ass and his own trust issues and his own problems to give him _anything_ in return.

He wished he could be better, especially with the way just the thought of Billy made him see things clearer, made his heart find its pace, made the butterflies wake.

Because if his father fired him, told him to leave, Steve just _knew_ he’d pack a pair of underwear and two shirts and move to Los Angeles. Vainly chase a one-night stand.

He breathed, running his hands through his already messy hair. When he opened his eyes, they landed on the phone.

And fuck him if he wasn’t known for having bad ideas at the _worst_ times.

Right next to the phone sat his favorite mug (“World’s best babysitter”, a Christmas present from Dustin a couple years back), filled to the brim with the coffee he’d asked Natasha to get, now cold, probably.

Steve wiped his eyes. Sat staring at the phone ( _again_ ), fingers tapping nervously on the desk. It was a stupid idea, okay, he knew it. Especially in the state he was in. But he needed to know that someone didn’t hate him altogether for being the dickhead he was, needed to know that he at least _tried_ to make things right.

He wasn’t feeling _better_ , but he was feeling _hopeful_ and that’s not something his mind presented him with frequently, so Steve held onto it.

He drank the coffee in one go. “Cold” was an understatement, but he downed it like he used to do shots of his father’s whiskey in high school and it made his insides churn and wake.

It was no trouble at all to find the little paper with the hotel logo where Billy had written down all his possible phone numbers: from his apartment, from the bar, even from his best friend’s place because he hung out with the dude a lot, apparently.

He stared at his neat handwriting, something that had shocked Steve since the days of sitting behind him in class. A wave of affection flooded over him as he remembered Billy sliding the small square of paper into his briefcase, free hand curling behind Steve’s neck and lips wet on his ear as he whispered _Call me_ , like Steve had any other choice when he asked so nicely.

With one of those deep, grounding breaths he sometimes had to take to do the simplest of tasks, like walking into the office or turning off the lights at night, even though he knew full well that there were no monsters in Indianapolis, Steve picked up the phone and dialed the number labeled as Billy’s place.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

And part of Steve was actually hoping Billy wouldn’t pick it up, so that he could at least just say that he’d tried and end it all. Because Steve was terrible at relationships and Hargrove deserved _better_.

But the other part wanted to hear his voice and be assured that he wasn’t mad, that he hadn’t taken it to heart because he was _that_ good. He just needed to know that they still had a chance.

He didn’t pick it up and when Billy’s voice greeted him it was obviously a recording, metallic, distant.

Steve stopped himself halfway from hanging up, because he didn’t have to be a coward like that. He could try. He could be more daring and fight for what he wanted, and he… He _wanted_ Billy Hargrove.

“Billy, hi,” he croaked after the signal. “It’s me. Steve. I just… I wanted to apologize about last night. That was a dick move and I was just… Worked up and you, you didn’t deserve it.”

He paused, wincing, squeezing his eyes shut. All his life he hadn’t been the best with words (Nance would know), but that was a new low.

“You’re special to me, too.” He cleared his throat, swallowed around a lump, heart aching fearfully in his chest, “I’ve… I’ve missed you every second since we parted. ‘S why I want to try and make this work, and I want to come back. I want to take a tour and I want you to show me the beach, and I want… _You_.”

Steve wasn’t sure if he could live up to those promises, but one thing was certain: he hadn’t been that honest about his feelings for _anyone_ since Nancy. And it was scary how fast everything was happening, but the thing about Billy is that it felt like going back to a place he used to know a long time ago. It was easy, comfortable, _safe_. Because they had picked up from that place of “almost friends” which they’d slowly built up to before Steve left, but now they were older, wiser (only a little, in his case), and they had just… _Clicked_.

If everything wound up dying after a week of phone calls that got progressively shorter and sparser, he would still be satisfied with what they had.

“Call me tonight if you don’t hate me,” he chuckled self-consciously, then sobered up as he remembered which line this was. “Not on this number though, _forget_ this number, it’s from work.”

Steve breathed. _Don’t lose it now, big guy_.

“Just. Just call me. Okay? Please? Alright, I’ll go now. Bye, Billy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot (like, /a lot/) of people asked for a sequel, so here we are. Just as it happened with "taking chances", this didn't want to stop growing, so I split it in two. Hopefully we'll have the second part out by next week.  
> HUGE thanks to Sarah for all the help and for inspiring this AU. <3  
> As usual, I'm also @wickedlittleoz on Tumblr and would love to hear from ya'll.  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!


	2. caught a bad case of you

Steve had never been one to talk openly about his feelings.

When he was five, old enough to be told he was _a big boy, now_ and treated as such, his father left on another business trip, only this time earlier than he’d promised, and Steve cried. His mom pulled him aside and told him boys aren’t supposed to do that, only girls cry, and left Steve to wonder what made them so different.

Three years later, when he was eight and had learned to never expect to find his dad home, Steve tripped and fell while playing with Tommy during summer break. He broke his elbow and it hurt so bad he couldn’t hold the tears. That is, only until Tommy’s mother called Helen. By the time she came to pick him up, Steve had stopped crying.

By twelve, he fell in love for the first time. He was quiet, red-haired and speckled with the most adorable freckles all over his cheeks (and his shoulders too, which Steve found out after practice in the showers), had moved in from somewhere in Europe. But Steve had heard enough stories about _those fags_ to know by instinct it was _wrong_ to feel that warmth in his chest.

At that point his mom had almost entirely moved away to their place in Indianapolis and Steve was alone at home most of the time. Still, he only cried in the shower, because if they showed up by surprise, then they wouldn’t see.

When Nancy happened, he was old enough to know that it was _okay_ to cry. It was okay to _feel_ things. Still, Steve had turned every single lock in the house, turned the music on as loud as possible on Vincenzio’s expensive sound system downstairs and locked himself in his bathroom after _bullshitbullshitbullshit_ to cry.

He’d woken the next morning sitting in his tub, still in last night’s clothes and with Hopper at his door because the neighbors had called about the noise.

He was no longer the five year-old missing his dad at supper, the eight year-old weak like a girl, the twelve year-old with “gay tendencies”, or the seventeen year-old shitty boyfriend. But Steve still struggled dealing with actual _emotions_.

Which is why, when he came home to find no response from Billy, his initial thought was _you’re an idiot, Steve Harrington_ , not the fake irritation girls used to give him, just actual shame. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed his keys and made for the door, because he simply _could not_ stay home and deal with the silent judgment of the phone.

At the door, he stopped, grounded himself, remembered again that people’s lives didn’t revolve around him and Billy was obviously busy with something important.

And so he resumed his regular night activities.

Though it was a Friday, he had no better plans than heating some ready-made pasta, finishing the remnants of a six pack he’d bought before L.A., and watching whatever horror movie (Steve had really taken a liking for horror after the Upside Down, because in comparison, those were actually pretty ridiculous) he could find on cable.

Some guys at work had tried to drag him along to their customary happy hour at a bar two blocks from the company, but Steve had dodged them, too worked up to feel able to socialize any further.

But despite all his efforts, his comfort zone didn’t exactly feel comfortable tonight.

His mind kept floating to a certain bar by the shore in California, to a certain blond probably walking between tables, greeting people with that bright smile full of perfectly-aligned teeth. To the smell of the ocean drifting in through the open window of the Camaro (still the same, still in perfect shape) and Billy’s warm hand on his thigh.

The worst part is that Steve probably had bigger things to worry about, given the fact that his father had avoided him the rest of the day and he still hadn’t heard from his mother either, which she usually did – call immediately, as soon as Vincenzio got home and told her about their fight. And it’s not that he appreciated their little calls (during which all she did was tell him he had to apologize and that his dad didn’t deserve such treatment), but they were better than the intervention dinner she was probably plotting.

Around two in the morning and after half a _Friday 13th_ marathon, Steve gave up. On wobbly knees, he made it to the bed and all too quickly he passed out. He didn’t dream, didn’t even realize he was asleep until a few hours later, when the phone on the bedside table started ringing.

At that point Steve’s feelings towards the thing were pure hatred and despise. It had tricked him and judged him for his _expectations_ , and Steve was _this_ close to unplugging its power cord.

Instead, and because his head was under the attack of an invisible drill, he turned to the other side and tugged a pillow over his ear.

The phone continued to make its annoying existence known for what felt like an actual hour, until his voicemail recording ( _This is Steve. Sorry, can’t come to the phone right now_ , which had taken him a whole afternoon) finally ended Steve’s suffering. After the signal, he thought either he had fallen back asleep or the person on the other end (and really, this must be, what, five? six in the morning? Who the fuck calls this early on a Saturday?) had changed their mind, for a good while, until…

“Hey, Harrington.”

At which Steve _jumped_ out of the bed, literally rolled and fell off the mattress, tangled in his sheets, as Billy’s tired voice went on,

“I’m sorry, this is late… Or early, I guess. But I just got your message now—”

“Billy.” Steve could barely remember his headache, he was suddenly wide awake. On his knees next to the bed, legs still wrapped into the sheets, he felt relief wash over him at the sound of Hargrove’s breathing on the other end of the line.

After the fight with his dad all he’d needed was someone to tell him it was going to be okay, and much to his surprise it was Billy he went to; after his unprompted call, all he’d needed was Billy to tell him _me too_.

The waiting had nearly killed him and now that he was about to get his answer, his stomach was so cold that he hugged his own waist instinctively and the sound of his heartbeat nearly drowned everything else.

“Did I wake you?” Hargrove asked and Steve thought his voice sounded softer now, as if he was almost… _Happy_ to talk to him.

“Yes— _No_.” He cleared his throat, it felt dry like sandpaper and he was suddenly aware that he had not had water the night before. “No, I. Had trouble sleeping.”

He heard the scraping of a chair being moved and Billy sighed on the other end.

“I’m sorry, babe.” And Steve… Steve _melted_ , literally felt himself lowering onto the bed before he could realize what he was doing, because Billy calling him _babe_ was just too much. “We can talk later if you—”

“ _No_!” He sounded so obviously desperate that Billy huffed a laugh and he blushed. “No, it’s fine, unless… You must be tired.”

“A little.” As if on cue, he was interrupted by a yawn and Steve wondered if they’d ever be in so much sync to give each other yawns. “God, I wish I could kiss you right now.”

The light blush of his cheeks spread downwards, heating up his nerves, raising goose bumps in his arms. There was no heat at all in Billy’s words, but just _knowing_ that he wanted Steve just as much as Steve wanted him, messed him up somehow.

“Thank you for saying it,” he chuckled, bit his lip like the blonde female protagonist of a rom-com. “Me too, Billy.”

Steve caught himself thinking that, despite the sex and the showering together, that might be the most intimate moment they’d shared so far. It’s early, the sun hadn’t even risen completely yet, they’re both so tired their voices were slurred. Yet they sat in the dark of their empty apartments, each in their end of the country, confessing things that Steve hadn’t allowed himself to _think_ in years.

Maybe Billy put something in his drink that night, because Steve had never fallen like that before.

“So you’ve missed me, huh?” Hargrove asked and the smug tone of his voice reminded Steve of the teenage version of that man, the one he’d met back at home.

“Yeah,” Steve breathed, feeling his heart clench anxiously. “You have no idea.”

Billy hummed, “I think I do, pretty boy.”

 _Pretty boy_.

That sent a spark up his spine. Until then he had completely forgotten about the pet name, this _thing_ Billy had called him since their first interactions back home. _A pretty boy like you has got nothing to worry about_. Those words had kept Steve hooked for days.

Now they had opened a gate of memories that flooded back into his mind, times when he had relied on them to get himself off, horny and frustrated after yet another basketball match that Billy had won.

He licked his lips, more awake than ever, feeling cocky, but the raspiness of his voice was definitely not the sexy kind, “Still think I’m pretty, Hargrove?”

Billy chuckled, voice suddenly heavy and breathy. It was short thing, followed by him clearing his throat and Steve actually feared that his nipples would pierce through the cotton of his t-shirt with how stiff they became.

“Yeah, Harrington,” he said, low, like he was aware all of a sudden of the time. “I still think you’re fucking pretty. Actually, still think you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever laid eyes on and it still drives me _crazy_.”

It was unfair how well he could pull it off in comparison to Steve himself. That was the same voice that had said _you wanna get out of here?_ , hand too warm and too high up on Steve’s thigh that night at the bar; also the same that had asked him to call when he had time before roaming a hand down the front of his suit pants.

Steve realized quickly that he was 100% susceptible to that voice, that when- _fucking_ -ever Billy used it on him, he’d get warm all over and immediately comply. Sure, it was way too early in the morning for anything sexual to actually ensue, but he’d be lying if he said it had no effect on him at all.

“I think,” he started, a little hesitant, a little afraid that he was crossing the line and it would send Billy back to the point they’d been after that last phone call, “you’re very pretty when I’m fucking you. And it drives me crazy, too.”

Hargrove burst into laughter again, low and short, the kind that would make the hair on Steve’s nape stand with anxiety back in school. Now, it went straight to his groin.

“Harrington,” he reprimanded teasingly, “here I thought you were the gentleman between us two.”

“Sorry, darling.” He hummed, amusement in his tone to conceal the shards of lust in his blood, “I meant no disrespect.”

Hargrove continued to laugh, like a girl being flirted, and Steve felt less like a pervert.

Slowly, the conversation picked back up and, as it did, they both lost track of time. One minute it was dark and Steve was listening to the story of how Billy had to rescue his friend with a broken car and it was late when they left the garage, so he went directly to work and that’s why he only got Steve’s message in the morning; the next, he was leaning on his window, watching the few cars already busying the avenue below his building and the purplish sky of _right-before-dawn_ and Hargrove was telling him about the pink clouds and how he could see the blue line of the ocean just a little far off from his balcony.

It was _easy_. Surprising, even, how they went through all of highschool hating, then barely _tolerating_ each other. As Billy’s voice flowed in through the receiver, his laugh (nothing of that bitterness from years ago, actual humor, actual _happiness_ ) echoing in Steve’s head, he wondered how different things could’ve been if they’d _known_ back then.

“Harrington.” His voice pulled Steve back to 1995, “Is everything okay?”

He felt a lump forming in his throat at three simple words. But it was the feeling behind them, it was knowing that Hargrove _cared_.

And Steve knew, then, with every part of him, with his heart and soul, that he couldn’t let it go this time.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling open and a little raw, and as honest as one could at six-thirty in the morning. “Yeah, everything’s great.”

 

The Harringtons owned a luxurious apartment in Indianapolis that was probably the size of the Byers’ house, to go with the inherited family summerhouse in Italy and the mansion in their hometown. And, in spite of them actually _living_ in it, the apartment was also empty most of the time, as was the rule for a Harrington property. Vincenzio spent most of his day at work and Helen was always out with friends or on spas because _being alone in an empty place gives me the creeps_.

When Steve moved to town, he spent a couple of months living with them, despite his parents obviously having the money to afford to _buy_ him a place of his own, let alone rent one. But at that point, and after everything, Steve didn’t want to ask for their help again. And when he announced his moving out, they were both mad at him for weeks.

Living with them again after spending his teenage years mostly alone, he felt suffocated, either locking himself up in his bedroom (somehow taken by the same self-preservative instinct that would fill his gut at the screech of a Demodog), or staying out as much time as possible.

It was also during that time that Steve realized their marriage was dead and they were only still together by convenience. But they didn’t share anything, didn’t even sleep in the same room anymore, barely _talked_ , and he couldn’t help but wonder if failed relationships came with the genes.

The whole thing didn’t really surprise him; his parents hadn’t been the most warm towards each other ever since he could remember. Nothing like Tommy’s parents, who danced to Elvis in the living room and cooked together. Or Lucas’ parents, whom he’d only met once, but had such an obvious connection he’d been envious. Or even Joyce and Hopper, who started their thing late, but were always seen only a few feet from each other, Hopper’s arm always casually thrown around Joyce’s waist or shoulders.

Steve had heard from his Nonna that his parents’ marriage had been arranged and Helen had been younger than her husband by twelve years. Even though they were perfectly healthy, both of them –well, maybe not his father, what with the smoking and drinking–, they had only had one child. It was clear they’d never fallen for each other. And for a while, Steve had been terrified that he would be forced to marry some girl he didn’t know and spend the rest of his life attached to this person he never truly loved.

 

He had still been on the phone with Billy when the bell rang. On a Saturday, at five to ten in the morning, Steve stopped and his whole body froze as it often still did, filling him with panic whenever unexpected situations presented themselves.

Telling himself there was no way Demodogs could have learned to ring doorbells did nothing to calm his nerves, because if it weren’t the dogs, it could still be the Feds. It could still be those crazy so-called scientists.

(And maybe he should do something about his obvious PTSD, but Steve _had_ signed those papers and sworn to never talk about it, and he figured if he told anyone, let alone a therapist, about flower-headed monsters and other dimensions, he’d be put in a psych hospital.)

“Billy,” he said when his mind started running again. “Someone’s at the door, I gotta go. I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Sure, babe.” His tone was bright and it brought some heat back into Steve’s bones. “Glad we talked, you know.”

“Yeah, me too. Now, go get some rest.”

The phone felt weirdly heavy when he put it down, like abandoning the anchor that was keeping him safe at the shore.

Insistent, the bell rang again. Steve rushed to the door, though his legs felt like lead and his feet kept trying to turn around and go back. The jingling of the keys as he unlocked the door reminded him of the sound of nails clashing into teeth. The knob was freezing when he turned it and swung the door open.

Just outside stood Helen Harrington, leopard print flare pants, bleached curls and all.

For only a split of second, he felt relief. But seeing her settled him back into reality and then his heart rate was picking back up, cold settling into his stomach, anxiety clouding his thoughts.

“What took you so long?” Annoyance had been the only thing Steve’d ever known in her voice, “You were still sleeping at ten in the morning? Frankly, Steven.”

She pushed past him into the living room, plucking off her sunglasses, heels clacking against the wooden floor in a way he knew would put him in trouble with the old lady below them.

“I-I was in the shower,” he lied, and suddenly he was twelve and tears were still prickling his eyes.

She gave him a once-over, almost as if only actually acknowledging his existence then, and _sniffed_ him, nose scrunching up after. “Of course.”

Slowly regaining his senses, Steve shut the door, his back turned to the living room for half a moment so that he could _breathe_. When he spun around, she was still standing between the couch and the TV console, examining everything with furrowed brows. Her eyes landed on the empty beers on the floor and her face was absolutely disgusted.

Steve cleared his throat and she seemed to, again, be reminded of his presence.

“Look, your dad doesn’t know I’m here. I wanted to talk to you, just the two of us,” she announced solemnly, as if for one thing his father kept track of where she went. Or as if she was doing Steve a _favor_ by not letting him know. Either way, it was the kind of bullshit Steve had been tired of putting up with for basically the last decade.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You should have called first, mom.”

Helen stopped, stared at him with furrowed brows and a face of someone who’d been told the sky is green and grass is blue – like he was dumb and his words were absurd. Steve had to stop himself from apologizing on instinct.

“Since when do I have to call before visiting _my son_?” She came off offended, though Steve wasn’t sure just how much of it was true.

He knew this act, this trying to make him feel guilty for not understanding her. _I’m your mother, Steven_ or _I put you in this world, boy_. And it made him all the more upset.

It’s not like she had been the most attentive and caring all along. Steve had had to fend for himself most of his life, feelings and problems and school activities and all sorts of things parents are supposed to guide you through until you’re ready to face the world.

“Mom—”

“Darling, sit here with me,” she said, the sudden sweetness in her voice dizzying and at the same time, sickening. Steve noticed that she checked the cushions for dirt before slowly lowering herself on one side of the couch.

He followed. “If this is about dad—”

“Of course this is about your dad, Steven. Now, listen, I know he isn’t easy—”

“No, mom, you don’t know.” Helen was holding his hands, which made it difficult for him to get up. But he wanted to. Already felt his breathing short and temper rising.

“I’ve been married to your father for thirty years, darling, I think I do know him.” She said pointedly, slow, like a warning that he was crossing some invisible line.

Steve breathed deeply, “I know you do, mom. But you don’t know what it’s like to _work_ with him. _For_ him. Vincenzio’s constantly degrading us—”

“Oh Steve, again with this?” She clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes, like he was a whiny child and upsetting, “Now you’re calling him by his name?”

He pulled his hands back, but she held them tighter. “ _Dad_ doesn’t know how to keep things separate.”

“Well, clearly neither do you!”

Finally, she let go of his hands, crossing hers on her lap. Steve stood and his first thought was that his apartment was way too small for two people. Which wasn’t true. It was Helen that suffocated him with her presence.

He padded over to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, all the while thinking of Billy’s voice and how genuinely happy he’d sounded just talking to him over the phone. Not a lot of people appreciated his existence that much. At least not outside of Hawkins, Indiana.

“Steven.”

He looked up. On the other side of the counter separating the two rooms, he half expected to find Billy Hargrove (and for some reason the Billy in his mind was the one from highschool, not the man from a couple days ago) sprawled on his couch. Instead, there sat his mother. But her eyes were clear now. Honest.

Steve set the cup down on the counter on his way back, took his seat next to her again and let her take his hands.

She would have these bursts of maturity sometimes, when she realized she wasn’t reaching out to him or when his Nonna tried to say she wasn’t raising Steve right (“ _well, Mrs. Harrington, we think our_ bambino _is perfect. He’s good, he’s respectful, he’s got a brilliant future and we couldn’t be more proud. Isn’t that right, Vincenzio? Honey?”_ ).

Sometimes he felt sorry for her, being forced to marry a man she barely knew and have a son at such a young age. What Steve saw in her was nothing but a woman clinging desperately to the youth that had been stolen from her. It wasn’t exactly her fault. Still, she loved him greatly, he could tell. Steve just figured he would’ve appreciated an immature, yet present mother, than the one she gave him.

“Have a little more patience,” she cooed. “He’s under a lot of pressure right now, with these new branches.”

“Mother, _I_ am under pressure right now. Dad has been an asshole—” She winced, “—to people all his life.”

Softly, she carded her fingers through his untamable hair, one of the few features he’d taken from her. Before he even thought about it, Steve leaned into her hand.

She didn’t _have_ to say anything else to make him feel like a teenager throwing a fit over not getting the most recent Mario game on Christmas morning. Yet, she did, and with the softest of voices, “He’ll make it up to you, darling. I promise.”

It broke the spell and Steve couldn’t help but think that _damn right, he will_.

 

The days leading up to the conference call were tense. Steve himself made sure to avoid _Mr. Harrington Sir_ at all costs, going as far as making excuses to not show up at their family lunches.

At work, word had gotten everywhere that he’d screwed up the meeting on the West Coast and that was enough fuel to bring back the talks that he’d only made it that far in the company because he was the CEO’s son. The only thing keeping him sane was Billy.

Billy and his invariably good mood, Billy and the craziest stories of drunkards at his bar. Billy, voice sometimes drowsy because he’d been to the beach, and just the thought would make Steve warmer, as if he too had been bitten by the sun. Billy, patient, supportive, could tell when Steve had had a bad day by the way he said _hello_ and knew just how to make him better.

Steve was falling. Hard and fast. And the closest they got to the fateful day, the more he too became desperate to close the deal and have an excuse to fly his ass all the way to sunny California.

“It’ll be fine,” he’d spoken over Scorpions the night before the meeting. Steve thought he played their music on purpose, because he’d mentioned once that it reminded him of the first time they’d met, at the school parking lot all those years ago. “They wanna suck your dad’s balls or something, right?”

“Christ, Billy,” Steve winced.

He chuckled, light with actual humor, nothing like the mean laughs he’d throw Steve’s way back in the day. “You know what I mean, they like him or trust him or whatever you fancy-pants say.”

He sighed, phone squeezed between his ear and shoulder, the cord stretched over the counter. Carefully, he poured boiling water into his favorite mug (from a few Christmas ago, hand-painted by the kids), chamomile leaves quickly releasing their color and that sweetened smell.

“Dad’s just a better negotiator than I am,” he breathed, defeated at that. “If someone can make this happen, it’s him.”

“Well, then let us be glad that he’ll be there,” Hargrove said, smugly. “By tomorrow night we’ll be making plans for when you come back.”

Steve _wished_ he were that confident. After what he’d heard and seen that afternoon, he knew it was going to be hard, even with his dad’s help.

Still, he appreciated Billy’s support.

“I hope so,” he said simply, moving to the couch and carrying both the phone and the tea with him. “Honestly think he might fire me if this doesn’t work out. Or I might quit, I don’t know.”

“Don’t _quit_ , what would you do?” Billy said, static clinging to his voice, an almost painful reminder of the miles between them.

It’s not that Steve was pinning his hopes entirely on him, he knew that Hargrove wasn’t dreaming of a white-picket-fence future with him. Sure, what they had was nice and the sex had been great as well, but that was one night. Would it be the same if and when they met again?

Still… Steve couldn’t say that he hadn’t thought about it. If the company did fly West, he had an excuse to move along (his dad would agree in 0.5 seconds if Steve knew him, especially after their last fight). But if it didn’t, he _had_ thought of quitting and starting over somewhere else.

And then… He half-expect Hargrove to give them a shot at something _more_. Something which Steve thought they’d been building over too-long phone calls and empty plans.

“Move,” he shrugged, though Billy couldn’t see it. “What, you wouldn’t give me a job?”

“I’m afraid our administrative affairs are way too simple for a man of your qualifications,” he teased. Something in Steve was still tense with fear that he simply didn’t _want_ him to move and stay.

“I wouldn’t mind learning a new craft,” he paused, sipped his tea, almost burned his tongue. “Think I’d make a pretty good waiter.”

“Right,” Billy was having a lot more fun with that than Steve, but he didn’t want to let his insecurities ruin the moment. “Ten years working in business and you’re going to throw it all away to wait tables in my bar.”

“How do you think the rest of the crew would take our affair?” He asked and took another long sip of his tea in a pointless attempt to melt the fear in his guts.

Billy hummed contemplatively, “We’d probably have to keep it a secret.”

“That would be hard.” _I’m not a very good liar_ , Steve wanted to add because that’s what made him such a terrible _bargainer_.

“It would indeed,” he sighed. “As if your pretty little ass needed an apron wrapped around it to stand out _more_.”

Steve had to laugh at that, couldn’t let it get past him because it was such a Billy thing to turn everything into compliments or sexual innuendos. He made it easy like that, heatless jokes that still had Steve blushing and kept the light mood of the conversation, kept him from going crazy with anxiety.

“I wouldn’t want to distract you, _boss_.” He finished his tea and set the mug down on the floor, “Maybe I should keep this job.”

“Maybe you should,” Billy agreed. “The suit pants are _really_ something else.”

 

They continued to talk for some more time, until Steve could no longer pretend he wasn’t stalling and Billy had to get back to work. Before they hung up, though, he told Steve again that he’d be waiting for his call the next night with a list of places to choose from so they could start making plans for Steve’s next trip to L.A. It was his way of saying he _believed in_ him.

 

It was a little after six when Steve arrived at work, which was _early_. He almost forgot to clock-in, stopped himself two feet from the elevator, waved awkwardly at the man holding the door and made his way back to the hall.

He was Nervous, capital N. Fidgeting with his keys, clicking a pen (until it got stuck), checking himself in a small mirror he kept in a drawer on his desk. It was like back in highschool, with the nightmares and the constant ominous feeling that a monster was going to pop down from his living room ceiling or his pool or under his fucking bed. His nerves were a _wreck_ , just like back then.

The call was scheduled for 9am, and if he didn’t know Billy would be asleep, he would’ve called before. _That_ ’s how much he was _not_ relying on the support of a man he was _not_ falling in love with.

Natasha stopped him by the glass doors of the conference room, hurrying to catch up with his hesitant steps. She pushed a cup of warm coffee into his trembling hands, held them, looked him dead in the eyes and Steve was struck with how determined that kid was.

“You’ve got this, boss,” she whispered, squeezed his hands a little harder, but stepped back when they heard Vincenzio’s steps down the hallway.

In large strides and without acknowledging either of them, he stepped between the two bodies and entered the room. Steve breathed deeply and Natasha handed him a folder with the papers from that first meeting, two weeks before. With one last look of reassurance, she turned around and left.

Steve had to fight the urge to follow her. Through the glass doors he could see his father sitting with his back turned to him, reading through notes of his own. He was certain, then and there, that his presence in that room was merely another excuse for the man to humiliate him. Whatever happened, deal closed or not, it was in Vincenzio’s hands. He just wanted to teach his rebel son and bad employee a lesson.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Steve slipped into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, this took a little longer than I had planned, but if you follow me on Tumblr you may have seen my post about work and college getting in the way of writing.  
> Another thing is that I felt this needed an extra chapter just to wrap things up. It'll be up at the same time as this one.


	3. I'm not looking for a cure

There was light on his eyes. Even from behind closed lids, which meant Steve had probably forgotten to shut the curtains. He’d been dreaming of the beach and at first the harsh light had felt like a part of his subconscious.

Somewhere at his right the alarm radio went off, something from Sixpence kicking off the early morning show.

Steve sighed as he sat up, rubbed at his eyes. Looked over his shoulder at rumpled sheets and an achingly empty bed. He regretted now going to bed so late – he’d be fighting sleep all day at work, the drowsiness made him so unproductive.

Once he could push himself up, finding his way to the bathroom wasn’t difficult. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafted in from the open window of the bedroom and he considered stopping by his favorite deli for some of their precious black liquid of vitality before heading to the office.

The cold water helped, though, clear his mind more. He showered quickly, most of his time in the bathroom spent shaving. One thing Steve had learned from his father was to always keep sharp and clean. The face of the business.

In the closet, there wasn’t much to choose from. His collection of suits varied in very similar shades of grey, black and dark blue. He stood with his back turned to the door, and working the knot on a tie at this point came naturally, like muscle memory. His morning routine had been the same for over a decade and Steve hardly ever changed, could probably do everything with his eyes folded.

But bare feet on carpeted floors can be so silent and that’s why he nearly jumped out of his skin when strong arms wrapped around his waist.

“ _Jesus_ , Billy,” he breathed, heart hammering in his chest, hands frozen midair. “You almost killed me.”

Billy’s laugh rumbled in his chest and Steve felt it more than heard, as he pressed their bodies close together. He kissed the side of Steve’s neck, breathed in his scent, hugged him tighter as if he wanted to merge into him.

Steve sighed, lovesick and peaceful in his arms.

It had now been six months since he’d moved to L.A., but Steve still managed to forget sometimes of his luck. Of how California had given him a new home and the love – he hoped – of his life.

Six months ago he had quit everything back at home, the company, his family. After the conference call with the team of entrepreneurs that wished to represent their West Coast branch ended every last chance they had of striking a deal, Steve and his father had the worst fight of his career–no, his _life_. He accused Steve of ruining his business one more time, said that it was all his fault even though Steve had been quiet during nearly the entirety of the call, and that had been the last straw. Drained and far too exhausted to continue to put up with the pressure and humiliation, Steve had quit.

At first, his parents didn’t really believe that he would quit. Over the phone a couple days ago Helen had admitted that her and Vincenzio had half-expected him to show up at the office and just resume work as if nothing had happened, until he called to announce that he was moving across the country. She hadn’t cried, but in her way she had apologized for not believing him all the times before.

Steve hadn’t thought that packing all his belongings and flying off to the West Coast to start a new chapter in his life would feel so… _Freeing_. He hadn’t thought that he could get used to the heat, to the way salt air ruined electronics and humidity messed up his hair. He had never, most of all, thought that he could leave Indiana behind and move somewhere so far away from his hometown and the monsters that his heart still feared that could reappear at any time.

Yet, here he was, six months in. He had a new job (apparently, his experience at Harrington & Co. was much valued on this side of the country, despite what his father liked to say), he had Billy and his apartment, which was now _theirs_. The regulars at the bar already knew him and by now he was friends with the staff.

Steve was _happy_. And even if he’d been afraid at first that things wouldn’t work out once he and Billy had to put up with each other every day, after months of living together, of adjusting to each other’s habits and ticks, of learning which lines should be respected and which blurred more and more with the passing of time, Steve thought he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life with the man.

“I made coffee,” Billy murmured, voice tired and yet somehow passionate.

Steve spun in his arms, one of his hands easily finding the other man’s chin and tugging his face closer until he could press their lips together, could taste morning and salt crackers and _Billy_.

“Thanks,” he but whispered into Billy’s mouth. “But shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Can’t a man enjoy breakfast with his boyfriend every other day?”

 _Boyfriend_. The word still ripped a smile out of him whenever it was thrown into the conversation and he had a feeling Billy did it on purpose sometimes, just to watch his face light up and nearly split in two.

He closed the small distance between them again, this time pressing his lips to Billy’s forehead before hugging his shoulders. “Damn right he can.”

If you had told Steve Harrington in 1984 that sometime in the future he would become Billy Hargrove’s boyfriend and they would live together in California, he would have laughed at your face. Or punched it, or both.

A decade later, having Billy at his side, being able to hold his hand and call him _mine_ were things that made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the last part!  
> This might be the first time in a whole decade that I manage to finish a multi-chapter, and even if it's so small (compared to most multi-chapters out there), I'm really proud of myself and happy to be able to deliver it!  
> I will say this isn't the end of this series. This AU has brought me so much joy and inspiration, and I want to write more! Can't say _when_ , but do count on it, I'm not giving these babies up.  
> I know ya'll might be a little mad at me for not including any smut, but this once I didn't feel the story asked for it? But, when I do write the stuff I have in mind, it'll happen.  
> Again, thanks to everyone who waited patiently and asked for this sequel. As usual, I'm also @wickedlittleoz on Tumblr and would love to know your thoughts and fill in your requests/prompts.  
> Much love!! <3


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